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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24289120">suspect</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/trilliananders/pseuds/trilliananders'>trilliananders</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:48:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,057</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24289120</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/trilliananders/pseuds/trilliananders</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>au detective!bucky barnes x investigative journalist!reader;</p><p>still wet behind his ears, detective barnes is given his very first homicide case, a woman no one seems to care about had been murdered. it’s only when investigative journalist reader brings the small details to his attention that he realizes there’s a bigger problem. a serial killer no one was paying attention to.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Riley/Sam Wilson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. one</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Cheryl Hansen’s accent was thick, Boston southie. “Are they in bed?” She asked the person on the other end of the line, “I should be home soon. Probably another hour or so.” Her heel scraping against the concrete, arm wrapped around her middle. The temperature had dropped since that morning. A beautiful spring day it had been, just hours before. She took her kids to the park, a rare happy moment in a life she though she’d never find herself in. “I love you.” Spoken softly as a car pulls to a stop beside her, “I’ve got to go, bye-bye.” Her phone screen darkened, the passenger window rolling down. She puts her game face on and leans down to talk to the man sitting in the driver’s seat.</p><p>It wasn’t something she particularly liked to do. You could say she didn’t like to do it at all. But it was easy money. It was quick money. It was the only way she could make money. She couldn’t see his face, half covered by a baseball cap which wasn’t out of the norm. A lot of Johns tend to want to cover their faces, the embarrassment of paying for sex. The ‘shamefulness’ of it. A lot of them were like this.</p><p>“Get in.” His voice, demanding, aggressive. He wasn’t going to be an easy one, and she knew that. A bad feeling in her gut, she slipped into the passenger seat of the car. The car pulling off from the curb and disappearing into the night.</p><p>…</p><p>They switched the coffee. Bucky glared down at the bitter cup in his hand before searching through the cabinets above the coffee maker. French roast, he scrunched his nose up at before dumping the cup into the sink and rinsing out his mug. “So no coffee.” He mumbles to himself.</p><p>The bullpen was busy today. Already, and it was not a good day. He had three cases worth of paperwork to turn in, his dryer broke last night so his jeans were still damp when he put them on, and his arm was aching today. A storm was coming soon. He was late to work which meant getting breakroom coffee and unfortunately, they’d stocked it with the one kind he didn’t like.</p><p>First world problems, sure he tried to rationalize as he sat down at his desk, booting up his computer for the first time that day. His thumb flipped through the large stack of files on his desk, ready to be sorted through and input into the computer. Rubbing his eyes, he realized he’s going to need to go get some sort of caffeine at some point.</p><p>“Barnes.” Looking up from his computer, in the doorway of his Captain’s office, Steve Rogers. Long time friend and once partner, now Captain of this precinct. “Can I see you in my office please?”</p><p>The man across from him let out a laugh, his fingers playing on his lips, shady eyes glaring over at him from behind his computer screen. “What did you do Barnes?” Rumlow the little shit. Bucky hated working with him. Rumlow fought him for cases, always. Became a detective at the same time as Steve and was sore as hell that Steve got the Captain position over him. He was waiting for the day that Bucky was knocked down a peg or two. “But it’s hard with good old-fashioned nepotism.” Rulmow would jeer. As if Steve was giving him anything special. If anything, Steve had been giving him the short end of the stick.</p><p>Bucky had been stuck doing cases easy enough for a beat cop. He’d been begging Steve for something else, but it was always the same shit, “Those cases go to the detectives with more experience.” The homicides. The serial rapists. Granted, they weren’t as prevalent as a common break in or robbery, but he still craved it. Justice was why he became a cop in the first place. He wanted to be tracking down true criminals. Not these schmucks being busted for having an ounce of weed on them, something he didn’t see as much of a problem anyway. He followed Steve into his office, ignoring Rumlow’s comment.</p><p>“Shut the door behind you.” Steve said, sitting behind his desk. The glass windows to the bullpen hot on Bucky’s back as he was sure Rumlow was staring him down, trying to see what was going on by the look on Steve’s face.</p><p>“What’s going on?” Bucky sunk into the chair opposite. Steve shuffled papers around on his desk before looking up at his friend.</p><p>“They found a body in an alley in near lower Washington.” Bucky perked up in his seat. Steve shook his head, “Don’t fuck this up, do you understand me? I’m giving you some real responsibility here.”</p><p>“Of course not.” Bucky blew out a huff, “You know how bad I want this Steve.” He rolled his eyes,</p><p>“Yeah I know,” Steve leaned back in his chair, “Now get out of here.”</p><p>The clouds gave a murky grey light over the streets of Boston. Bucky peered up at them as he exits his car. He rotated his left arm, the muscles sore. There was already caution tape strung up surrounding the alley. Beat cops and people trying to peer into the crime scene.</p><p>The body. Fuck the body. Bucky’s stomach churned at the sight. Yes, solving a homicide came with its perks career-wise, but the physicality of it was something he’d yet dealt with. He’s seen his share of bodies as a beat cop. He would have been one of those suckers behind him securing the scene and making sure there was no civilian interference. Keeping all the looky-loos at bay.</p><p>That’s the thing though, everyone thinks they want to see a dead body, but when faced with one… it’s much more unsettling. This woman could have been anyone. She could have been Becca, his sister. She could have been Peggy, Steve’s wife. She could have been anyone. But that’s not saying that there wasn’t a stigma with it.</p><p>“It’s a hazard of the occupation.” Rumlow would spit at him later, “Nothing more than another dead prostitute.”</p><p>“Sex worker.” Bucky would correct him. And now squatting next to the body, looking upon her corpse. “Victim.”</p><p>She was flat on her back. Spread eagle on the ground. Naked. Her eyes blankly staring up at the sky. Her makeup was smeared across her face. She’d been crying. Ligatures around her neck, no doubt that she had been strangled to death. And the one strange thing, the one souvenir taken from her body. Her ring finger cut at the joint. And missing.</p><p>“Look who they let out of the bullpen.” A snarky voice from behind him, he peered over his shoulder. “I brought you a coffee.” Natasha Romanov. Assistant DA. No doubt the one assigned to this case, even though they both know it won’t go anywhere. No one cared about a dead sex worker, and the girls she worked with wouldn’t speak to cops. Bucky resented Steve for giving him this case. Immediately.</p><p>“Thank you.” Taking the coffee and stepping over to her side.</p><p>“What do you think?” Natasha asked, gesturing toward the body. Bucky took a sip of his coffee, bringing himself back online and feeling okay for the first time that morning, considering. He shakes his head.</p><p>“It’s a shame.” He takes another sip, “Guys just get to mow down these girls like they’re nothing. And no one will probably ever go to jail for this.” She nods,</p><p>“Sucks that they gave it to you.” Bucky sighs. Yeah, it does. “Well, I have to get back to the office, but let me know if you find anything.”</p><p>“Thanks again for the coffee.” He watches her go. The coroners waiting for him to give the okay to take the body for autopsy. He nods, stepping back and out of the way.</p><p>Whoever killed this poor girl obviously thought very little of her, having her spread open that way, discarded in an alley like trash. It stirred something raw in Bucky’s gut.</p><p>When he got back to the precinct he sat heavily in his chair, rubbing his eyes and typing the woman’s name into the computer. He’d have to tell her family, if they had any. Maybe she had priors.</p><p>And she did.</p><p>Her face pulled up on his screen. Cheryl Hansen. The life in her eyes. Miserable, but she was there. Alive, and she was arrested for drug possession, solicitation for sex work twice, she had a restraining order on an ex-boyfriend. Maybe he could start there.</p><p>But first thing’s first. Next of kin.</p><p>“She was a pretty little thing huh?” Bucky turned and glared at the man behind him.</p><p>“You’re disgusting.” Bucky spat, scribbling down her address and then typed in the ex-boyfriend’s name.</p><p>“I’ve got eyes.” Rumlow parried. “Just because she’s dead doesn’t mean she wasn’t hot.”</p><p>“Have some respect.” The ex-boyfriend’s face loads, his rap sheet longer than hers and littered with domestic calls and assault charges. A good lead. A great lead to be completely honest. The way she was murdered was violent and passionate. Intimate almost.</p><p>Cheryl lived in a bad part of town which wasn’t surprising. Bucky remembered on going on more than one domestic call here in his time on the beat, it was dirty, not too well kept. But it was cheap and it’s hard to find somewhere cheap to live in Boston. His knuckles rapt against the door. A shuffling heard from behind. The door opened, chain still locked into place and a hazel eye showed in the crack.</p><p>“Can I help you?” Cheryl’s Mother. He swallowed, anxious about what was about to follow.</p><p>“I’m Detective Barnes with Boston PD.” His badge held up for her to see. “I’m here to talk to you about your daughter, Cheryl Hansen?” The door shut and a scramble for the chain before it was pulled open. A baby on her hip.</p><p>“Did something happen to her?”</p><p>This was the worst part of the job. The despair. He was serving her with the death of her child. The death of her daughter. Cheryl had two kids. One just barely over a year, the other three years old. Two beautiful baby girls that no longer had their Mother.</p><p>Cheryl’s mom, Sophie sat across from him, sobbing. He didn’t know what to do. This isn’t something that ever got easier. A box of tissues stolen from the coffee table, sat between them at the small kitchenette. Her head in her hands, crying. He tried to comfort her. He did. Hand on her shoulder, but it was best to just let them cry it out. It was all you could really do.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says, knowing it won’t make it any better, “I’m going to do everything I can to find the person responsible for this, but I need you to tell me if there’s anyone you know who would want to hurt her.”</p><p>“She told me she was a waitress.” Sophie sniffled. “She told me—” A hiccup.</p><p>“I know this is difficult.” He scoots his chair closer, “But Cheryl needs us to help find her killer.” Sophie’s eyes red, body trembling as she met his gaze.</p><p>“Uh, Michael Hale.” The ex-boyfriend. Sophie sniffles and hiccups again. “He used to really hurt her.”</p><p>“Later on, a woman named Natasha Romanov should be by.” He says, “She’s going to want to ask you similar questions and she’ll help you get in touch with grief counselling and how to take steps legally for guardianship of the kids, I’ve informed her of the situation.” Sophie nods, taking the little business card with his number scribbled on the back. “If there’s anything you need at all, call me at this number.”</p><p>“We used to call her Cherry.” She sniffs, staring at the card. “That’s her nickname.” Her eyes met his, crying and obviously distraught. “People may not know her name is Cheryl. That’s all.”</p><p>With Sophie telling him that Michael Hale would be someone who would hurt Cheryl he had everything he needed to bring him in.</p><p>“Natasha.” He spoke into the receiver. “I sent you an email with the information I’ve gathered so far, I need you to look into Michael Hale, call me back when you get this.”</p><p>This neighborhood. Even as he stood out on the street, his car feet away. He was getting looks. He didn’t belong here and that was clear. He flipped his phone between his fingers, taking one last look around before slipping into the driver’s seat of his car and pulling away.</p><p>A few minutes into his drive Natasha’s name lit up on his dashboard. A button pressed on his steering wheel answered the call.</p><p>“Autopsy report should be in tomorrow morning at the latest,” She said, “I’m processing a warrant for Michael Hale, I think we have enough to at least bring him in for questioning, see what he was doing last night, but I think you should head back to the station.”</p><p>His brow furrowed, “Why is that?”</p><p>“There’s a reporter poking around, asking to talk to you. She’s… persistent.”</p><p>…</p><p>It had been a slow news day all in all. Not much going on outside of upcoming elections and the same silly little fluff pieces about a new animal coming to the Franklin Park Zoo or a kid selling lemonade real nostalgic like in their front yard raising money for one of their sick classmates. A shooting in Chinatown or a robbery here or there. A quaint little town just outside of Boston ‘shaken’ by whatever crime people were nonplussed about in big cities.</p><p>But it got your attention. Cheryl Hansen.</p><p>It showed up as a little blip on your radar. The way you followed the leads before. Maybe this time.</p><p>Maybe this time.</p><p>“Hey Sam.” Your editor. The big man behind the desk. “Let me take this.” He was wearing his glasses, reading emails when you showed up in his doorway. A printout of the police report, not much information to go on, but he would know. He would know why you wanted it. The paper plucked from his desk and he adjusted his glasses to read it, eyes gazing over the top rim at you.</p><p>“A murdered sex worker?” He asked, “Y/N…”</p><p>“Listen, Sam…” You slipped into the chair across from him, “We could get ahead of this, look at the details.” The detective’s notes. How the body was found. Where it was found.</p><p>But was her ring finger gone?</p><p>“Y/N…” Sam sighed, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “The last time you fell down this rabbit hole it wasn’t good for you.” You remember. The hangovers were hell. The stress. The migraines. “I don’t think—”</p><p>“Sam it’s him.” You know it is. You can feel it in your gut. “I know it.” He looked at you, silently debating for a moment before saying,</p><p>“You can talk to the detective, get a short comment. Nothing more.” The paper thrown back on the desk between you. “Less than 300 words and I mean it. I don’t want you pulling out the red string.” You felt your jaw clench but willed yourself to relax.</p><p>“Thank you.” The paper hastily grabbed from between you and you took your exit, barely grabbing your jacket before running out the door.</p><p>Your heart raced when you saw that police report. This could be it. It could be the clues you’d been waiting for.</p><p>“Hi, I would like to speak to Detective Barnes.” The man at the front desk of the police station glanced up at you from his computer screen.</p><p>“He’s not here right now.” Another man rounded the desk, leaning on the counter beside you. “Is there anything I could help you with? Detective Brock Rulmow.” A shit eating grin. Wise guy.</p><p>“I need to speak to Detective Barnes about the woman murdered in the Combat Zone this morning. I’m an investigative journalist with—” His brows pull together. Head jerking to the side.</p><p>“The prostitute?” He asks.</p><p>“Sex worker.” You correct. “Do you know when he’ll be back?” Rumlow’s jaw clenched, he looked to the man behind the desk as though in on a joke, then back at you.</p><p>“No clue sweetheart,” A chill down your spine, “I’ll let him know you were in.”  You try not to huff in frustration,</p><p>“I can just wait at his desk.” You offer, no big deal. He laughs bitterly,</p><p>“I’ll let him know you were in.” He repeats, like it’s final. You shake your head looking down at the man behind the desk.</p><p>“Is there someone else I could speak to?” You ask. The man looks between you and Rumlow, but before he can speak.</p><p>“You can speak to me.” Turning, you see a woman in all black, red hair perfectly smooth, pulled back on her head in a tight bun at the base of her neck. “Natasha Romanov, assistant DA, I work with Detective Barnes.” A sigh of relief. “You’re more than welcome to sit at his desk and wait for him, he should be back soon, but I myself will not be making any comments about the crime at the moment and I’m not sure he would be willing to either.” A blanket statement, but she didn’t shut you out so there was some wiggle room here.</p><p>“I just have a couple about the victim herself, Cheryl Hansen.” Natasha nods, “She has children?” Something that could be easily found with a search, but you’re asking her anyway.</p><p>“Two.” Natasha answers, “Young, only a year and three years.” Simple things make her think you’re just writing a short little piece about the victim.</p><p>“Was she married?”</p><p>“No,” She crosses her arms, leaning over on her heels. “But both children are from the same father.” You hum, a little bias there. Would it have made a difference if they weren’t?</p><p>“Does she have any remaining family?” Natasha looks at you for a moment, glancing at the bag on your back.</p><p>“Are you going to write any of this down for your article?” You shake your head,</p><p>“It’s up here.” A tap to your temple. “If I was taking a direct quote I would record, but…”</p><p>“These are simple questions.” You smile,</p><p>“Yeah.” You look back past the desk and into the bullpen. Rumlow glaring at you from across the way before looking back to Natasha.</p><p>“Her Mother.” Natasha answered, then looking at her watch says, “I’ve got to get going, but I’m sure Detective Barnes should be back soon, his desk, unfortunately, is the one beside Detective Rumlow’s.” Of course, it is.</p><p>“Thank you for your time.” But she was already walking away from you. You sucked in your teeth, slipping into the bullpen and settling yourself into the seat at his desk. The little plaque ‘Detective James Barnes’, slightly messy with an empty coffee mug and a large stack of files.</p><p>You could feel Rumlow’s eyes on you, but luckily, he hadn’t said much since you sat down. Now all you had to do was wait.</p><p>You didn’t have to wait long before a man entered the precinct and made his way over to the desk you were waiting at, you standing to greet him.</p><p>“Detective Barnes.” A smile as charming as you can muster, and a hand thrust out in front of you for him to shake. Which he does, giving you a strange look.</p><p>“You’re a reporter?” He shakes your hand awkwardly,</p><p>“Investigative journalist.” You glance behind you at Rumlow’s scoff, his eyes focused on his computer screen. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about Cheryl Hansen.”</p><p>“Do you have any information that would be pertinent to the case?” He went to sit at his desk, stopped by your hand,</p><p>“We should talk privately.”</p><p>Bucky Barnes has heard your name before. You’d approached many Detectives in cases such as these and there was a little stigma attached to it. It wasn’t uncommon for your name to be brought up looking into the death of a sex worker. “Every time a girl is murdered suspiciously, she pokes her nose into it.” Natasha told him. “Just give her a little statement and send her on her way.” Harmless.</p><p>The small conference room he watched you slip your backpack off and sink into a chair, looking at him expectantly as he sat across from you.</p><p>“I don’t have a lot of time,” Which wasn’t a lie, but wasn’t exactly the truth either. He needed to talk to Steve, but not much else could be done about the case until he got the warrant for Hale or the autopsy report.</p><p>“I’ll be quick, I promise.” The little notebook laid out, pen absently set beside it. “I just have a couple of questions as far as the layout,” The notebook full of scribbles, notes. Bucky could see different names. Details. “She was on her back? Spread out? Naked.” Yes. He watched you pause for a moment, “Strangled?” He nods, yes.</p><p>“This is all things you can find in the police report.” He says, “What is your question?” You stare at each other a moment before asking,</p><p>“Was she missing her ring finger?” That took Bucky off guard. That wasn’t in the police report. Something he kept from accessible record. He stared at you for a moment,</p><p>“How did you know that?” He watched your mouth part, your eyes shifting into the bullpen, then back to his.</p><p>“You’re a new Detective, right?” You ask him. He nods, watching you rip a sheet of paper out and scribbling down an address. “I think you can really help me, but it’s not safe to talk here.” A phone number, before sitting back in your chair and looking at him plainly. “This isn’t just another dead girl.”</p><p>A knock on the conference room door. He spun around, Steve. “Barnes, in my office please.” A look past him at you, “Sorry for interrupting,” an apologetic smile. “Just have to steal him from you, but I’m sure he’d be willing to finish the interview at another time.” Bucky took the slip of paper from your hand, scooting back from the table as you stood across from him.</p><p>“Thank you for your time.” Bucky shakes your hand,</p><p>“Have a nice day.” And he was gone from the room. Walking through the bullpen and into Steve’s office.</p><p>“Thanks for saving me.” He sighs, sinking into the chair across from his friend. The paper shoved into his jacket pocket. Steve laughed,</p><p>“You’re not the first Detective she’s cornered looking for information.” Typing into his computer. “She has this conspiracy theory about the murdered sex workers in the Combat Zone that she’s trying to find a foothold in.”</p><p>“What conspiracy?” Steve had been a Detective long before he was, when he was still a beat cop Steve got promoted, and it wasn’t long after Steve had been promoted that he became Captain. The guy was a marvel. Very hard working, a little strict, but Bucky admired the perseverance of his friend. Steve wanted to be Captain just like his Dad had been, and he did nothing else but work hard to reach his goal. Bucky was sure that Joseph Rogers paved the way for Steve’s success, but Steve was so hard working on his own that he couldn’t help but have been proud of his friend.</p><p>Steve shakes his head, “Back in the 90’s there was a serial killer on the loose here in Boston that murdered a bunch of sex workers, but they caught the guy. He had a confession. His DNA was found on multiple crime scenes.” Steve sits back in his chair, slightly rocking from side to side, “But she still thinks they caught the wrong guy.” A shrug. “So she thinks he’s still out there and could pick back up at any time.”</p><p>“So she’s just nutty?” Bucky chuckles, sighing and rubbing his eyes, “Is there any margin for error on this?” Steve purses his lips,</p><p>“There’s a margin for error on any case, but I think that there was enough evidence for the jury to come to the conclusion that the guy was guilty.” A shrug, “I don’t remember enough about the case, but I’m sure you could look it up and see the details.” A slight rock side to side in his chair,</p><p>“Did you want to grab a drink later?” Bucky asked, “I think I need one after seeing that body this morning.”</p><p>“I can’t,” Steve sighs, “Peg’s brother is coming over for dinner tonight and I gotta be out of here right at five to go help her clean up and cook.” Bucky nods,</p><p>“Alright, so I’ll see you tomorrow then?” Standing from his chair,</p><p>“With your paperwork all finished.” Bucky groaned.</p><p>“Don’t give me that Buck.” Steve laughed, “It has to get done.” He raises his hands in submission,</p><p>“It’ll get done.” Bucky smiles, “Tell Peggy I said hi.”</p><p>“Will do.” Rumlow was giving him a look when he sat down at his desk, protein bar in hand.</p><p>“The broad is crazy right?” Bucky shakes his head, not answering, “She is hot though, next time I see her I’m probably gonna see if she wants to—”</p><p>“Don’t you have work to do?” A glance over the top of his computer screen, the smirk on Rumlow’s face.</p><p>“You’re no fun Barnes,” A laugh, “No fun at all.”</p><p>…</p><p>“He didn’t believe me.” You sighed into the receiver, shaking your head, “I could tell.” A deep breath from the other side.</p><p>“Maybe you need to take a break from this.” Sam’s voice laced with concern, soft for you on the other line. “I know how much this means to you Y/N, but it’s not healthy.” You could feel the tears starting. You needed to calm down. Your knee bouncing up and down as you sat in your car. The anxiety.</p><p>“I can’t let go, Sam.” A whisper into the car. “I just can’t.”</p><p>“I’m not asking you to.” You could hear him on the other end, probably slipping his coat onto his shoulders. Picking up his bag. “Maybe you should come over for dinner. Riley is grilling steaks; I’ll have him throw one on for you.” Shaking your head.</p><p>“Not tonight, Sam.” You tug on your bottom lip, “I think I just need to be alone.” You hear him pause,</p><p>“It’s not—”</p><p>“Good for me to be alone, I know.” You look out the window of your car at the police station. “I think I’m gonna just go grab some dinner out and go to bed, I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”</p><p>“Okay, if you need anything…”</p><p>“Thank you, Sam.” The phone disconnected you ran your thumb across the screen before tossing it into your cup holder, turning your keys in the ignition and pulling off.</p><p>There was a little diner by your apartment. A place that had been your favorite since you could remember. You could recall in vague memories of your Mother, when she was still alive, taking you to this diner. It wasn’t the best diner, with the best coffee, or the best pie. But you knew everyone who worked there. It wasn’t uncommon for you to stop in and have dinner there while you worked. To be honest it’s what you preferred to do instead of going home to your empty apartment every night. Laptop out on the table while you ate a club sandwich and fries, Marie stopping by to refill your coffee while you sat with a half-touched piece of whatever pie they were trying to get rid of.</p><p>It was a comfort really.</p><p>And when you walk in and your table is empty, it just makes the day just a little bit better. Back to the wall, the window on your left giving you somewhere to zone out over the parking lot.</p><p>“Hi honey,” Marie, sweet and ageing, her hair was almost entirely grey now. You vaguely recall a time where it was pitch black. “What do you feel like eating today?” A glass of water and a soda brought over with her greeting. You hum, slipping your laptop out of your backpack.</p><p>“I think I want a burger.” And she was off. Your screen lit up you opened your notebook. The first page was a list of names. The twenty women killed over the course of 10 years starting in 1989 and continuing to 1999. One every six months like clockwork, the following pages, each woman having their own page. Name, next of kin, children’s names and ages. Details of their death. And on and on, you flipped through the pages. Leaving a blank page in between you write at the top, Cheryl Hansen.</p><p>Mother of two.</p><p>You wondered briefly what she wanted out of life. If she wanted to do something else and just tumbled into this bad life by circumstance, because they all did. You wondered how the system failed her. How she ended up dead in the middle of an alley somewhere because she wasn’t given the help she needed.</p><p>Tomorrow, you’d talk to her Mother. Like you’ve talked to the other next of kin before. You open the Facebook page. Thousands of members.</p><p>Justice for Nick Fury.</p><p>The man the murders were pinned on. The man you visit every week. And you made a post.</p><p>You thanked Marie for your dinner, picking at your fries as you wrote to your mods about the new development. That you’ll be looking into it, because you’re sure in the next day or two you’ll get a good amount of people forwarding you information about Cheryl’s death. A fund would be put up for donations to help her children. You sigh, leaning back against the booth.</p><p>As you finally bit into your burger, your phone lights up on the table next to you. A number you don’t recognize. Your thumb ran across the screen, answering the call, “Hello?” You wiped your mouth with a napkin.</p><p>“Y/N? This is Detective James Barnes… we need to talk.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He’d passed this diner a million times and had never gone inside. It was tightly packed between two buildings almost like it didn’t really belong. The bright neon sign above the door lit him blue as he stepped into the diner, eyes scanning the room until he found what he was looking for. Your back to the brick, typing away on your laptop. Coffee and an untouched slice of blueberry pie going cold next to you.</p><p>He didn’t know why he was here. Maybe he shouldn’t be. But how did you know? How did you know that Cheryl’s ring finger was taken? He had to at least absolve that, and then he could go. He could leave. That’s all he is here for. In the moments before you realized he was even there, before he takes a seat across from you, he takes in your appearance.</p><p>Windswept hair and wrinkled clothes he was sure were your ‘business casual’ a bare requirement for the office you worked in. But he knew you were attractive. Brock didn’t have to tell him that, he has eyes. The warning in the back of his head, he needed to keep his distance from you. He knows that. But he just must know.</p><p>You look up at him as he approaches, sitting back in the booth as he takes a seat across from you. “Hi.” He folds his hands in front of him,</p><p>“Hi.” You slip the laptop off to the side as the server approaches.</p><p>“Can I grab you anything?” Sweet and polite, giving you a questioning look. He wondered if you had much company here. Marie, on her name tag, seemed to know you.</p><p>“Just a coffee, please.” A nod and she was gone.</p><p>“So what did you have to talk to me about?” As you took a sip of yours. He sighs, back against the booth.</p><p>“How did you know she was missing her ring finger?” Blunt and to the point, he watched your mouth part and then close.</p><p>“Because that’s what he does.” You say simply.</p><p>“That’s what who does?” You stare at him for a moment more,</p><p>“The Boston Butcher.” A pause while Marie set the coffee mug on the table, pouring him fresh coffee and topping yours off. A gentle ‘thank-you’ from your lips before she walks away. The case Steve told him about. The guy who, from 89-99 murdered twenty sex workers in the Combat Zone, the red light district. But he had to admit it had markers of the case. “Detective… it’s the same MO, it’s the same process. The ring finger missing… she was strangled and when your toxicology report comes back from her autopsy, you’ll find ketamine in her system. It’s what he uses to subdue them.”</p><p>Bucky shakes his head, “The Boston Butcher is in jail, and has been for almost twenty years now.” He saw the mug shot. Nicholas Joseph Fury, his priors included drug possession and two misdemeanors. The man looked angry in his mug shot, is left eye milky and blue, half shut with a scar. He looked terrifying.</p><p>You sigh, tracing the rim of your coffee mug, thinking. “Okay well, it’s a copycat then.” You shrug, meeting his eyes. “Because that is the MO of the Boston Butcher and I wouldn’t be surprised if you find another girl six months from now.”</p><p>“We have a suspect for Cheryl’s murder.” He explains. A man who he had just interrogated not that long ago. A man who didn’t have an alibi. You laugh sarcastically,</p><p>“Then why are you here?” How could he answer that when he didn’t even know himself? Curiosity? Doubt? Steve had seemed pleased with him finding this lead, no one else bat an eyelash at him going for the ex-boyfriend. It’s more likely. Statistically speaking anyway.</p><p>“I don’t know.” He sighs, back hitting the booth. He runs his fingers through his hair and you flip through your notebook.</p><p>“First victim, Angela Price.” You swallow, “Twenty-four years old, mother of one, a little boy named Andrew.” You show him her picture. A beautiful young woman, big curly hair with mall bangs and blue eyeshadow. “She was a sex worker. Found on her back, spread eagle, drugged and strangled with her ring finger missing in February of 1989.” Another, “Second victim, Victoria Brown. Twenty-seven years old, mother of three, two girls Jessica and Michelle, and one boy Jason.” Another picture of a beautiful young woman, smiling with her kids, an Easter photo. “She was also a sex worker. Found in the same exact way, August of 1989.” And on, and on.</p><p>“Stop.” His hand lay over the pictures you’re laying before him. Okay. <em>Okay. </em>“So say we have a copycat.” He levels with you. “Right? But you think…”</p><p>“Fury is innocent.” You spit. “He was a good scapegoat for the police to appease the public.” He watches you reorganize the pictures you’d shown him, slipping them back into your notebook. “Whoever the Butcher is, he’s still out there. But if you’re not ready for that, then you need to go talk to Fury himself or try talking to the girls.” The girls still on the street, “I can help you.”</p><p>He sighs, his coffee grew cold. He believes her, some little part of him nagging at the back of his brain and telling him that it makes sense. The proof is all right there. It was at least a copycat. “Help me how?”</p><p>“I want this killer brought to justice,” You say, “And the girls are never going to talk to a cop, but they will talk to me.”</p><p>“Listen,” He sighs, “This is my first homicide as a detective and I appreciate your enthusiasm over this case and your concern, but I can’t in good conscience bring a civilian into an investigation.” A five-dollar bill down on the table. “Thank you for the information, I’ll keep it in mind while I explore different avenues.” How clinical, like he was giving a press conference on the news. He couldn’t believe what was coming out of your mouth. “If you’re looking for more information for your article, you know where to reach me.” Hands in his pockets he was gone.</p><p>A soft rain falling from the sky wet his head and shoulders as he reached his car, his eyes moving of their own volition back to the glass window of the diner. To you. He watched you with your head in your hands, still for a moment before pushing your hair back from your face and sitting back, rubbing your eyes and pulling your laptop back in front of you. And with the lit screen hitting your face he pulled off.</p><p>You watched his car leave, before focusing back on the screen. A new message from Wanda sitting in messenger.</p><p>
  <b>GoFundMe is set up, have you talked to next of kin yet?</b>
</p><p>A quick reply, of ‘tomorrow’ and you shut the screen. Not able to deal with it anymore.</p><p>“Marie, I’ll take my check whenever you get time.” The pie boxed up and stuffed into your fridge, you lay on the bed in your studio apartment, staring at the light above the stove. The drip of the sink. The soft sound from the tv playing the evening news. Not a mention of the crime from yesterday. Because no one would care.</p><p>No one cares when a sex worker is murdered.</p><p>It’s a hazard of the job.</p><p>A hazard of the disgusting, degrading, job of a whore. But they weren’t. They were people with hopes and dreams and ideas that were crushed under the boot of people meant to protect them.</p><p>It made you so angry. Being treated like you were crazy. You knew that’s who you were to them, the police, that crazy reporter who’s trying to connect dots for a case that’s already been solved. Conspiracy theories about how there must have been someone in the force, there had to be someone in the force helping them. There had to be.</p><p>But police protect their own. And no one would believe that one of their own could have had something to do with this. But you knew, it felt like a cover up. But you didn’t know who they were trying to protect.</p><p>You just needed someone to take a chance on it. You needed someone to believe you. And you thought James Barnes would, but apparently you were wrong.</p><p>When you found the address for next of kin you realized it was familiar. The apartment complex you’d been in once before. A long time ago it feels now, but the memory was fresh. It was unsettling. But you weren’t here for you.</p><p>Sophie was a wreck. She had been shaking when she answered the door, pried open with a crying baby on her hip. “I’m here to help you.” You told her. “I run a victim relief charity.” You’d brought food. Put together by some of the others in your group. Ready to bake meals, groceries, and a check of first relief funds to help her with the burial.</p><p>“You do this for all of them?” She asked you. And you nod.</p><p>“We know how hard it is,” You try to comfort her, “Firsthand.” You helped her clean up the apartment. You helped her get the laundry together and clean out the fridge for space for the food you’d brought.</p><p>“I had to ID her body this morning.” Sophie cries. Baby Kayla toddling around and handing you blocks and various toys. Her older sister, Brielle was sitting not too far away watching cartoons. A sniffle, “I couldn’t believe it was her.” A shake of her head. “I can’t believe my baby is gone.”  </p><p>How long would it be before the police didn’t care anymore? Until they were done with her? You were sure James had already talked to her. “Have they talked to you about getting custody transferred over and what to do with the girls?” This two-bedroom apartment was in Sophie’s name. Cheryl was supporting them on her income. Sophie is on disability and unable to work. The stress was clear. On top of losing her child, she had the fear of losing her grandchildren too.</p><p>She sighs, rubbing her eyes, “The detective said someone from the district attorney’s office would be by, but no one yet.” Because you’re on their time and they’re not on yours. A heavy sigh.</p><p>“Well we have a GoFundMe set up,” You rub her back, “We’ll do what we can, we also have resources for free counseling and we do meet ups once a month, there’s one in a couple of days and I know that it might be a little soon for you but we have a lot of people able to pool some resources and I know a couple people who run daycare services and might be able to help you with the legal side of this Pro-Bono.”</p><p>It’s funny how tragedy affects people. Some go on to find themselves in careers to help those who were once in their position. Some of those children left behind went into social work, became one became a lawyer, some grew up to become foster parents when they themselves used to be foster kids.</p><p>All the people you’ve met, the families left behind, you tried to help. It took years to form this organization, but you did. And you met every single person who had been left behind by those murdered. Some believed that Fury was the culprit, but the majority were in the same boat as you.</p><p>They feel like justice hadn’t been served.</p><p>“Here’s my number.” Your business card with your contact information handed over, your business card for the charity. “We meet at the rec center on Malcom on the fifteenth of each month. I know that it’s a little soon, but just think about it.”</p><p>Reusable tote in hand you step from the apartment building just in time to run into the stunning redhead from yesterday. Today her short hair was down and slightly curled. Her clothing less severe. She got dressed up to be more friendly and approachable.</p><p>“Funny running into you here.” Her voice smoky and smooth. You shrug, gesturing to the bag over your arm.</p><p>“Just dropping off some food, giving her some information about my victim’s relief aid.” The lawyer doesn’t react, a silent moment before she says,</p><p>“I hope you haven’t put any ideas into her head.” You were taken aback.</p><p>“I’m sorry?” You were sure she knew about your ‘conspiracy’; you’d seen her a couple times before talking to her yesterday just around the courthouse while you were working on other stories and cases.</p><p>“You need to be careful what you say to these women,” Her voice wasn’t betraying any emotion, “I wouldn’t <em>directly</em> tell them to look into those cases.” Walking by you and into the apartment building you wondered what she knew. Because if you don’t directly tell someone to investigate the Boston Butcher cases, you’re not liable for someone interfering in a police investigation. And if someone else were to interfere… you would be given more credibility.</p><p>“Hey,” You breathe, sinking into the driver’s seat of your car. “I just left Sophie Hansen’s, I’m on my way back.”</p><p>“How did it go?” You could hear the noise from the office, Sam never closed his door which you thought was equally good and bad. “How is she?” You sigh, sinking down into the seat a little bit.</p><p>“She’s a little bit of a mess,” You explain, “Understandably… you should see those little girls Sam.” Your eyes welling up, you place your hand over them. “They’re not even going to remember her.” A sniffle.</p><p>“You’re doing what you can for them,” He reasons, “There’s not much else—”</p><p>“I wish there was.” You lean back against the head rest, pulling a tissue from your pocket, sighing, “I’m gonna stop for coffee, do you want anything?”</p><p>“I told Riley that you’re coming for dinner tonight. I think you need to spend some time with your friends right now and you can’t back out because he’s at the store right now.” You laugh,</p><p>“You’re the worst.” Turning your key in the ignition he replies,</p><p>“I know, now go get my coffee and get back to work.”</p><p>…</p><p>Bucky didn’t sleep a lot last night. He spent most of it in the precinct and going over old files in the conference room. This old filing system from before everything went digital, he had to go to the records room and get the one box of information about the case. But it wasn’t making any sense.</p><p>Why would such a prolific killer not have more recorded information?</p><p>After a nap on the breakroom couch and hours reading every detail, he could he compiled his own file about the case and typed his notes.</p><p>“You alright pal?” It stunned him out of grogginess, half asleep over the manila folder on his desk. Looking up at his friend he accepted the cup of coffee from Steve’s hand. “Have you been here all night?” Bucky felt himself nod, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes.</p><p>“I actually have to talk to you about something.” Steve takes a sip, furrowing his brow.</p><p>“Come talk to me in my office.” Steve’s office was always clean and well organized, just like everything else in his life. It made Bucky feel like he was sort of a mess. Where Steve’s hair was always perfectly combed to the side, his face clean shaven, his uniform always starched and pressed, Bucky was always sporting five o’clock shadow, bags under his eyes, and he was sure that he’d never even used an iron. He’d give it to Steve for being a military brat turned ex-military man. “What’s going on?”</p><p>Bucky shut the door behind him, slipping the file onto Steve’s desk and sitting heavily in the chair before it, taking a sip of his coffee as Steve opened the file. His brow furrowed and he looked up at his friend.</p><p>“You’re looking into the Boston Butcher?” Bucky nods,</p><p>“I think we’ve got a copycat, maybe…” He shrugs, “The MO matches perfectly and looking more into Michael Hale’s story… I’m going to keep up with it but I don’t think it was him.” Steve nods, sipping on his coffee before sighing.</p><p>“Listen, Buck.” Sitting back in his high-backed chair, “I think you should explore the Hale alibi before we jump to the conclusion that we have a copycat. It would be a very serious avenue to go down.” Steve firm and rational, “Rule out Hale first and then we can talk about a copycat, just to cover our bases.” Bucky nods, “Did you sleep at all last night?”</p><p>“I took a nap on the couch.” A shrug. Steve sighs and rubs his eyes.</p><p>“You need to take better care of yourself.” The file slid back to him over the desk, “Check out Michael Hale, get some rest. Come see me tomorrow.”</p><p>Just another nap, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to sleep that night. Groggy he woke up in the afternoon still tired, but a little more alive than he had been previously. He took a hot shower, changed into some fresh clothes and debated shaving but decided against it.</p><p>He’d be back at the precinct before the lunch hour was done.</p><p>He’d been thinking a lot about what you said to him the night before. If this guy was a copycat, then you had to expect for him to strike again. But how would they even prepare for that? Wait for another body to show up? He’s had to question people in the red-light district before. It wasn’t easy. He was sure that probably anything else would be easier. But it would need to be done anyway.</p><p>He wonders if maybe he should take you up on that offer, if it turns out to be a copycat. Maybe he answered a little hastily. He cringes at the way he’d spoken to you last, he sounded like some bureaucratic weirdo.</p><p>“Detective Barnes?” His eyes torn away from how he’d been blankly starting at his phone in the line for coffee. There you were, like a sign, holding a cardboard tray with three drinks in it. “Sorry, I just didn’t expect to run into you here and I wouldn’t have felt right not saying hello.” He understands,</p><p>“You’re fine,” He offers, “Really.” He wants to ask. His gut feeling is telling him to ask.</p><p>“Have you heard anything?” You sound hopeful, “I know it hasn’t been long, but…” He shakes his head.</p><p>“Not yet.” You nod. He should ask. “Listen, I know how I came across last night and I just want to say that if the situation plays out… the way that you’re expecting it to, I’ll be in contact.” The line moved forward and it was almost his turn. You nod, a swell in your chest seemingly from satisfaction.</p><p>“Okay, <em>okay.</em>” You give him a soft smile, “I’ll talk to you later then.” Confident and pleased.</p><p>“How can I help you?” The cheery barista pulled his eyes away from you, and when he turned back you were already gone.</p><p>“Americano please.”</p><p>…</p><p>A loud pounding on the door.</p><p>“Christine.” A call through the wood. The apartment’s lights were on. The TV still buzzing with a show no one was watching. More loud pounding. “Christine, I’m coming in!” The door unlocked and swung open. The man on the other side taking the state of the apartment. At first look it was a mess. There was trash strewn about and a rancid smell. As the man walked further into the apartment, he noticed the dishes in the sink and a plate on the counter. He gagged as he realized it was covered with maggots. A sick feeling in his stomach had him pulling his phone out, he continued into the living room.</p><p>On the coffee table was a discarded needle, a little foil wrapper opened with a ball of black tar. The smell growing stronger. He lifts his shirt to cover his nose. “Tina?” Hand on her bedroom door his heart began to race. The smell overpowering and turning his stomach as he pushes it open to reveal her body. Bloated with rot.  </p><p>He vomits.</p><p>…</p><p>“He made you sound like a basket case.” You watch Riley glare at his husband, a laugh shared between the two of you as Sam rolls his eyes, forking more pasta into his mouth. “You need to give her more credit,” Looking at you, “You’ve come such a long way.” A sip of wine, Riley already had a lot which is why he’s being so loose lipped right now.</p><p>“Thank you, Riley.” You sip your wine, plates just about cleared and Sam was on his second serving. “I really love what you’ve done with the garden.” The night was warm and pleasant, the three of you were eating out on their patio to the light of citronella candles and soft music playing over the speakers Sam installed last year.</p><p>Riley worked from home and always claimed, “I need my environment to be beautiful for the sake of my mental health.” Which included plenty of plants and color coordinated desk supplies. He was on first name basis with the guy whose FedEx route was through his neighborhood, “Caleb loves me.” He would defend.</p><p>“When are you going to move out of that gross apartment and into something like this?” Riley asked. “He pays you enough.” You shrugged,</p><p>“It’s just me right now, I don’t think I really need much.” He sighs,</p><p>“I just don’t like you living in that neighborhood.” A defense, “I know you’re used to that area, but—”</p><p>“I’ll think about it.” To satisfy him. He smiles softly at you knowing you were just saying it to appease him, “I will.” Your phone rings and glancing down at it you see a number you don’t recognize. “Hold on.” Stepping from the table you hear Sam scold his husband for bringing up your apartment, but you can’t focus on that. “Hello?”</p><p>“It’s Barnes.” A sad tone in his voice and what he says next makes your stomach drop, “We found another body.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div class="">
  <p>The smell of death. It is unlike any other smell and once it’s something you experience; you’ll never forget it.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Bucky thought he’d seen bad crime scenes. He thought the last body he’d seen had been the worst one. But he was proven wrong. He gagged entering the small apartment, immediately being hit with the smell. Even through the face mask it hit him fully that this body must have been decomposing for a while.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He walks to the back bedroom, the forensics team snapping pictures and bagging evidence in the living rom as he walked by. The first thing he sees when he enters the room are her feet. Her ankles bound to the bed with rope, her skin puffed up around the rope itself. The ties are tight. She’s naked, her eyes are swollen shut, he could see the ligature marks around her neck, her wrists bound to the top frame of the bed. A pool of blood under her left arm, dried and crusted. Her ring finger gone.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“How long do you think?” Bucky asked. The head coroner, Bruce, his arms crossed staring at the body. Bruce shakes his head and sighs heavily.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Anywhere from… five days to a little over a week probably.” He squats down by the side of the bed, peeking into her nostrils, Bucky gagged when he noticed the maggots. Leaving the room and trying to keep his vomit down. As he stepped out on the asphalt outside, he ripped the mask from his face taking gulps of fresh air.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Later he would wash himself with lemons and stick his nose into a bag of coffee grounds. The smell burned itself into his nostrils and the image was hard to shake. He didn’t know if he would ever sleep again.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>This time he did shave, his shaky hands nicking the skin of his neck. He tied his clothes in a black trash bag and set it with his laundry, something to be tackled later and he grabbed the manila folder on his coffee table. The ripped open envelope of Cheryl Hansen’s toxicology report.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The diner was familiar to him now, and he found you at the exact same booth you’d been in last time. The notebook in front of you, laptop closed off to the side. You had a cup of coffee sitting in front of you and an empty one across. The stainless thermos pot left on the table for him to serve himself.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Jean is the only one on right now,” You explain to him, and the woman he assumed was Jean was dealing with a couple drunks and other late-night patrons. He pours himself a cup of coffee.</p>
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  <p>“Sorry for being late,” He sighs, “I had to get the smell off me.” You hum and he watches you shiver.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“It’s powerful.” You agree. And he wonders how you know what it smells like.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Cheryl wasn’t the first victim.” He explains, setting the manila folder on the table, the open toxicology report of Cheryl’s on top. “Christine Jones was.” You sigh, looking over his hastily written notes. Everything he’d written down at the scene. How he found the body. What it looked like. What the apartment looked like. He gave you a minute while he made his coffee, plucking a creamer out of the bowl that had been left for the two of you.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“This had to have been his first,” You sigh, “The copycat… the Butcher usually doesn’t leave that kind of bloody mess.” Where her ring finger had been cut. The blood dripping down her arm.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“He usually cleans them up after.” He agrees. The blood from the finger was always cleaned before the body was disposed. His mind goes back to Cheryl’s hand. Her finger cut off at the joint, the blood half clotted like it had been done… “He cuts them off when they’re still alive.” You look up at him from the paper.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“The finger,” Bucky explains, “He cuts them off while the girls are still alive.” It rolled like acid in his stomach.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“The Butcher didn’t do that.” Both of you know he didn’t. The Boston Butcher would take the ring finger, but it was always postmortem, the blood unable to clot. The blood unable to pump out through a cut off finger. He watches you cross your arms, leaning back against the booth, thinking. “So this copycat… he wants to murder, but he’s not confident.” You offer, “So he finds Christine… and ties her up.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“And he removes her finger, and then strangles her.” Bucky finishes, sighing and placing his head into his hands. “I can’t believe this is happening, honestly.” A rough chuckle, “You were right.” The clink of your spoon on the little dish.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I didn’t want to be.” You admit, “Honestly, but if this guy just killed twice in the same week…”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Then he’s going to strike again soon.” He watches you swallow harshly, looking out the window of the diner into the parking lot.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Where are her kids?” Bucky hadn’t known she had kids, but they apparently had been taken away by child protective services and were in foster care. Christine was struggling with a drug habit and had been disowned by her family.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He could tell how much it affected you.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Tomorrow,” He says, “After a good night’s sleep…” which he sorely needed, “Are you able to help me talk to some of the girls?” He watches you nod, still staring out into the parking lot. You seem dazed and off kilter.</p>
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  <p>“Of course.”</p>
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  <p>Bucky wasn’t prideful, you decided. Which was a good quality in a person. You admired the fact that when you saw him in the coffee shop yesterday, he gave you faith in his belief, that maybe you could be right. He didn’t downplay it then. You admired him in the diner when he asked for your help even though 24 hours before he hadn’t truly believed you.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But you couldn’t sleep. You felt restless and sweat through your sheets. The normal lullaby of sirens and drunk yelling on the street was causing you stress and you were paranoid. You cleaned your entire apartment, clearing out your fridge, wiping down every surface and scrubbed the grout until you were to the point of exhaustion, falling asleep with the smell of bleach on your fingertips.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You look like shit.” Sam said the next day, passing by your desk on his way in. You groaned, accepting the coffee he’d brought for you. The first sip as life’s blood, the first coffee of the day emptied and discarded in the trash can under your desk. “So, we’ve got a bigger story than we originally thought.”</p>
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  <p>“I’ll have five hundred on your desk in an hour,” You yawn, “Then I have to work on collections for the food drive.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“When are you seeing the handsome detective again?” He asked, slight smirk as your brow furrows, “You told Riley he has strikingly blue eyes.” An eye roll made him laugh, “I’m just saying, maybe it’s kismet.” Like him and Riley.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’ve got work to do Sam.” He raised his hands defensively.</p>
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  <p>“You know where to find me if you want to talk.” A playful smirk on his face as he disappeared into his office.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Bucky was feeling a little better, sleeping in his own bed for longer than two hours made him feel far less fatigued and ready to tackle the day. Walking into the precinct he had a strange feeling and that feeling was further enraged by how serious Rumlow looked and Rumlow hardly ever looked serious.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“The Chief is here.” Rumlow tells him. Bucky’s eyes meet the glass window of Steve’s office, but the blinds are shut. “We’re going to have a meeting after this to talk about your vics.” Bucky’s stomach turned, which seemed to happen a lot lately. Queasy. The protein bar he shoved down for his breakfast sat like a brick in his stomach.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Alexander Pierce was a hard ass. In the three times he’s met Peirce face to face the man always had some kind of sneer on his face, like he knew he was better than everyone else.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“He likes the power.” Steve told him once while they were sitting on his back deck, and taking a sip from his beer Steve said, “He’s a prick.” Steve hated the guy and Bucky had to agree with him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“We are starting a task force.” Pierce announced. “Our aim is to keep it under the radar,” His hands held the sides of the podium, like he was the President giving the State of the Union Address. “Which means the following, no talking to the press, no interviews, no leaked information. This is a closed-circuit case.” His eyes scanning the room, “The task force should not deter other normal duties and the numbers we require from you.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The arrest numbers, a fucking joke. Like looking good on paper mattered more than serving and protecting. His eyes rest on Bucky, “Seeing as Barnes is the one who discovered the copycat, he will be leading the task force along with Rumlow. An agent from the FBI will be coming up to assist with the investigation. You two will decide who else will be helping you track down a suspect. I expect this not to get out to the media.” His eyes focused in on Bucky, “Under no circumstances do we want attention pulled to these murders. Understood?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yes, sir.” Rumlow answered beside him. Bucky felt himself nod. He’s going to have to figure something out, or at least something to tell you.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>…</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Wanda and her brother Pietro were just two of the children left behind by one of the Boston Butcher’s victims. Magda Eisenhardt. Right at the end, Magda had been one of his last victims in the 90’s. But the twins kept themselves busy, while they worked for the victim’s relief fund, they also ran their own food collection and homeless shelter. The hand they were dealt, even after foster care was much worse than your own and they sympathized heavily with people left on the streets.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your bag had quickly been discarded in the back office and you went to join Wanda in wiping down and organizing cans and packaged goods. It was a big drop off day, which meant you might be able to grab some to bring Sophie some groceries later. Someone, very kindly, donated the rest of their baby formula. A Boston mom who had enough money to buy in bulk.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You think we can give her a couple cans?” You lift the two in your hand. “I think she’s pretty low.” Wanda nods, scribbling onto the clipboard before tapping it down on the counter.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Is he really back?” Soft and unsure. Like she didn’t want the actual answer. She looks at you, terrified. You let out a deep breath.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I think so.” She sinks into the chair behind her and you set the two cans down on the table before walking over to hug her.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I talked to Nick yesterday.” Her hand rubbing your arm that was wrapped around her shoulders. “Maybe this is what we need to help us get him out.” You sigh,</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I think it’s a copycat,” She looks up at you, “but if he sees that it’s happening maybe the real Butcher will get angry that someone is doing such a sloppy job.” A moment of silence, Wanda sheds a tear and quickly wipes it away.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I think we can give her those and you can take her some of the pasta and canned veggies.” Standing and removing herself from your arms, grabbing a cloth tote and putting the formula and aforementioned items inside and putting it off to the side. Wanda took the death of her Mother very hard. She had been in therapy for a long time and to your knowledge she still goes, once a week like clockwork.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Pietro told you once that she feels guilty, but you couldn’t imagine why. “She feels like it’s her fault.” Over coffee, “Like our Mom buying her a barbie dream house was the thing that got her killed.” Wanda knows it wasn’t her fault. Realistically. But more in practice it was a nagging guilt in the back of her brain that made her feel like she needed to do so much good in the world to make up for the fact that her Mom needed to make money and she’d cried and whined about wanting a Barbie dreamhouse for her birthday.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Selfish.” She’d said once.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You’re not selfish,” You would say, “How would you have known?” How could anyone know? You don’t know when it’s going to be the last time you talk to someone. You can’t possibly know when it’s that person’s last day. And there’s no way of knowing at six years old that your Mother will be ripped from this world by a psycho.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She always answered with a shrug.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m meeting with the detective tonight,” You tell her, “We’re going to go try to talk to some of the girls.” She nods, turning to you her face a little red and blotchy,</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’ll put the feelers out here,” She says, “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” You wrap her into a hug. Her arms tight around you.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’ll check back in tomorrow?” She nods, squeezing you a little harder before letting go. “Tell Pietro I said hi.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I will.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>…</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Bucky was struggling and it wasn’t just because Rumlow hadn’t shut up since the meeting. But because he didn’t know what to do with you now. He knew the girls wouldn’t talk to him, and they definitely wouldn’t talk to Rumlow, but Pierce seemed to know about you. He seemed to know about the contact that Bucky had with you. Or maybe Bucky was just paranoid.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“He’s hoping to see you fail.” Steve told him, “That’s why he left you in charge… don’t let him win.” It made him uneasy. This could make or break him now and that fact did not go over his head. He could feel it as soon as Pierce said that he would oversee the task force. Just waiting for him to fail and slip real easy back behind his desk.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He sunk down behind his desk, drafting a text. Rumlow was going to be going with him to try to question some of the girls and Bucky knows that if you went with him to meet them Rumlow would have an issue with it. Especially since Pierce made such a big deal about it. No doubt he would try to kiss ass and gain favor by exploiting you.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <strong>Can’t meet up to interview. Meet at diner later?</strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He sighs, phone dropping heavily onto the desk. He looked across the room watching Rumlow speak closely with Pierce. It gave him a strange feeling. Like they were in on something he wasn’t. It wasn’t a secret that they knew each other. Pierce was the reason why Rumlow had even became a detective. Rumlow liked to boast nepotism between Steve and Bucky but he forgets that his own Stepfather is Chief of Police.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Rumlow doesn’t like to mention him and from the very few times Pierce had been brought up in his presence he’d visibly tensed. Bucky assumed that their relationship was strained, but the close and intimate conversation they were currently having would tell him otherwise.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Bucky cracked his knuckles. His phone dinged. Your reply,</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <strong>I can go alone, diner when?</strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A huff, he texts back.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <strong>DO NOT GO ALONE. Just meet at diner around 12.</strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>How dumb are you? Trying to go out alone when an active serial killer was on the loose, strolling around the red-light district by yourself. You either had a lot of confidence or a death wish.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <strong>I know someone, I’ll go talk to them and then meet you at the diner.</strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His brow furrows and he shook his head in disbelief,</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <strong>Who do you know?</strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Let’s go.” Rumlow grabs his jacket from the back of his chair and walks past Bucky without stopping. A glance up at where Pierce and Rumlow had just been talking showed Pierce glaring at his stepson’s back, his eyes flit to Bucky’s and his face became stone before turning his back.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The girls stood in small groups. Two or three, occasionally four. Whittled one by one until there would be a single girl standing alone. That’s when it would get dangerous. The goal, overall, was to see if the girls had dealt with anyone out of the ordinary lately.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Typically, serials don’t just start killing out of nowhere. There’s a steady progression of assault. Maybe there’s a guy who is a little aggressive. Maybe there’s a guy they get a bad feeling about. And hopefully someone would be willing to talk.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>…</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sophie gave you a name when you’d dropped off the formula and canned goods. A girl Cheryl was really close with. “She said they were coworkers.” Sophie told you, “So she’s probably in the same situation.” A quick look found her address, not too far from where Sophie lived. You were going attempt to drop by, see if she was in and if not… then you would just have to go see if any of the girls would talk to you.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A knock on the apartment door, you could hear something going on inside. She must be home. Or at least, someone is. The door is ripped open, the chain jerked tight against the opening as a man looks out at you from inside.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Can I help you?” Not friendly, not that you expected him to be.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Is Angel here?” He pauses, looking behind him for a moment and talking to someone in the room before turning back.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Who are you?” He didn’t turn you away so that’s good at least.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m a friend of Sophie’s.” You cross your arms across your chest, feeling a chill. “Sophie told me to come talk to Angel about Cherry.” He looked back into the room, shutting the door and then reopening it, stepping back.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Come on.” His head poking out into the hallway and shutting the door behind you. You could see the girl you were looking for, sitting just before you on the couch, curled up into herself, sniffling. Her eyes were red, hair messy and a tissue in her hand.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What do you want?” She sounds congested and she doesn’t get up when you walk further into the apartment.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m Y/N,” You offer, “I work with the VRF for those affected by—”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“The Butcher.” She nods, “I’ve heard.” You nod,</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Do you know who Cherry went with that night? Have you seen anyone suspicious?” A humorless laugh,</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Most of the johns are suspicious.” She shakes her head. But that’s fair, “I saw her get into the car, but I wasn’t paying attention to the plate or anything. It was normal…” A harsh swallow, “It just seemed so normal.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Do you remember anything about the car itself?” Sinking down onto the couch next to her, “Anything identifiable? Color? Make? Model?” She shrugs, balling the tissue into her fist.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“It was like… it looked like a cop car, but it wasn’t.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Like one of the ones they sell at auction.” The man spoke from his spot in the doorway, “An old police cruiser that had been stripped and sold and probably sold at auction.” You nod,</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Okay,” That’s helpful. Really helpful. “Did you get a glimpse of who was in the car, by any chance?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“No.” She looks at her knees, “I’ve been afraid to go back out, since they found her.” Understandably so, “But I’m going to have to…” A pause, “I think you should go.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It was clear she was having a hard time, you truly felt bad for her. The situation she must be in. “If you think of anything else.” She nods, taking the business card. Stepping back out onto the street you found yourself a little more confident than before.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A police cruiser gone to auction was a lead. It would at least give you a list of suspects. The excitement in that, was unreal.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>…</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Bucky rest his head on the steering wheel after having parked in front of the diner. His head pounding. He honestly didn’t know how much longer he would be able to do this and it just started. He felt like he would gain an inch, a girl willing to say something. Anything, and as soon as she started to open up and get some real ground with him, Rumlow would say something cheap.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He’s fucking up the investigation.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But it’s just him. Bucky thought Rumlow was a good detective. Before this. But now, how did the guy solve anything? He clearly made the girl uncomfortable. And he wanted to throttle Rumlow when her voice resigned, said, “I have to get going.” Before moving to a different block.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“They’re disgusting.” Rumlow spat on the ground. Bucky groaned at the smell of dip spit. “Like talk about lack of dignity.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“They’re people too.” Bucky wanted to go. Maybe this is how he fails, Rumlow is his iron anchor, drowning him. A knock on his window startles him, sitting back in his drivers’ seat and sighing he sees your face through the glass and kills the ignition.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You good?” You ask him as he steps from the car. He scrubs his hand over his face, head still pounding.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yeah, I think I just need to eat.” He watches Marie give you a strange look as the two of you walk to what seemed to be your normal table, something you shrug off as you drop your bag heavily on the seat squished between you and the window as he sat across from you.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Soda and iced tea. Bucky ordered a burger and you a club sandwich.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“They don’t want me talking to you,” He starts with. “Chief made it clear that he wanted no press involvement.” You sigh across from him,</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“So what are you going to do?” He was trying to read your face, but you seemed as though you’d been expecting him to say that. Like it didn’t surprise you in the slightest. He thought about it.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He thought about what he wanted to do. He’d been thinking about it all day. “My gut is telling me to work with you.” He sits back as Marie comes with the plates, a soft thank you and a smile. “I want to work with you.” And he wanted to know more. Why you ran this relief fund. Why you were so passionate about it. He had a theory. But he would need to look into it a bit more, or he could just ask.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I got a lead.” You grin at him, plucking a fry from your plate, “So Angela Bennet, she goes by Angel, a friend of Cheryl’s, she said she saw Cheryl get into a retired police cruiser, like the ones they sell at auction.” He feels his mouth drop slightly,</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Like the old white and blue Fords?” You nod, popping another fry into your mouth.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I can run a search for cars gone to auction.” He takes a bite of his burger. Maybe that’s something else he can talk to Steve about. Steve bought his Dad’s old cruiser years ago as a novelty. Steve often cleared stuff for auction and would maybe help him profile someone who would want to buy a police cruiser, maybe the type of guys that would go to those auctions to buy. “My friend Steve, he would know more about the old cruisers.” They’d had a huge overhaul in 2015 at their precinct. New, updated cruisers with more bells and whistles. They’d gone out in reliability in the last decade of having them.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“If you could get a good picture of one,” You start, “We can start asking around.” That was a good idea.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Tomorrow, maybe we should go talk to Fury.” If Fury was the Butcher, then he would be able to give them some insight into what kind of person they’re looking for. If he wasn’t… well Bucky could cross that bridge when he got to it.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I can’t tomorrow.” You take a sip of your drink, “We have the group meeting tomorrow for the VRF.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Do a lot of people go to that?” How had he never heard of this before? You shrug,</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“We pull a descent crowd.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Well maybe that’s what we could do tomorrow.” And he could talk to some of the people attached to the 90’s cases. Get some information, “But I would have to bring Rumlow.” He just wanted to get rid of him, this pain in his ass, Rumlow the insensitive shit.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Why?” Bucky sighs, sitting back against the booth.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“He’s my partner for the case now that it’s a serial.” A shake of his head, “They’re sending someone up from the FBI too, trying to get ahead of it.” You roll your eyes across from him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Ahead of the bad press, you mean.” A harsh sigh, “Back in the 90’s they did the same thing, no one even knew that the Butcher existed until they took Fury in for questioning.” Maybe he should ask. Maybe he should just…</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“How do you know so much about this?” He watched you stiffen slightly, “Why are you so invested?” You dropped the fry you’d been toying with back on your plate before sighing and leaning back, matching his posture.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Because my Mom was one of the victims.”</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. four</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When the police questioned you after your Mother’s death you just couldn’t remember. You were their only witness. And you couldn’t remember.</p><p>You’d been in your pajamas, eating cereal and watching cartoons. It was the middle of the day when your Mom answered the door. A man followed her in the house. You could hear them in the hallway. And then loud noises. You remember hearing your Mom scream. And then nothing. It was quiet.</p><p>And you were found days later with your Mom’s rotting corpse in the next room.</p><p>You shake it from your head.</p><p>“It’s not uncommon for you to blackout parts of your memory that are harmful,” Bucky sighs, “Especially as a child.” You traced the words in your notebook. It made you feel useless. Like you could have put the guy away maybe. The right guy. Because you know it’s not Fury. You know it entirely.</p><p>“I’ve been in therapy for years.” You explain, “Trying to uncover the memory, trying to work through it… it’s just gone.” He nods across from you, the plates empty, and check placed down between you. The exhaustion finally hits. And you’re tired.</p><p>“I should be getting the autopsy reports back in tomorrow.” He scrubs his face, “And then I’m sure I’ll have to report to Steve and get the go ahead to come to the group meeting.” With Rumlow, which gave you pause.</p><p>“You need to make sure he knows that these are all friends and family of murder victims.” Blunt and clear, Bucky looks at you from over his fingertips. “Rumlow… he can’t come into this group meeting and be an asshole to everyone.” A nod from him.</p><p>“I’ll have to talk to Steve about his behavior tonight too.” Crossing his arms and sitting back, “It was just unacceptable.” A nod as you both drift into silence. “Did you drive here?” You shake your head,</p><p>“I don’t live far.” As you both slip from the booth to walk outside.</p><p>“Let me drive you home.” He offers, tapping his fob, the headlights of his car flashing in front of you.</p><p>“It’s honestly like, two blocks.” You point with your hand in your pocket. He shrugs, tapping the fob again locking the car.</p><p>“We can walk then.” He was insistent and you honestly couldn’t blame him. You just didn’t want to make him feel inconvenienced about it. You knew this neighborhood, it was on the cusp of being in those bad parts of town, your apartment straddling the line. You could tell he was tired. Just in the way he walked beside you.</p><p>“You really didn’t have to.” You say, reaching the steps of your apartment building. You key in the code at the door and buzz in. He follows you inside.</p><p>“I do have to.” His voice raspy with fatigue, “It’s not safe out here, why do you even live here?” The cracked linoleum, the yellow fluorescent lights. You shrug, honestly you felt like maybe a nicer place wouldn’t feel right. You’d lived in places like this your entire life. Kicking your foot against the linoleum you look at him in the harsh light. The bags under his eyes.</p><p>“Convenient I guess.” He shrugs.</p><p>“Text me when you’re in your apartment,” Gesturing toward the elevator. “Let me know when you’re safe.” It warmed your heart a little bit, the concern. He smiles at you as the elevator doors shut, and keys tossed onto the kitchen counter, shoes kicked aside you collapse into your bed.</p><p>Thank you. You draft, I’ll see you tomorrow. Send.</p><p>See you then.</p><p>Bucky sighs, stepping from the apartment building and looking up the side, the various lit windows before trekking back to his car. Today was rough, but he had the feeling that tomorrow would be even worse.</p><p>The next day the precinct was buzzing with activity. A group at the front talking to a beat cop, arms crossed and somber. He met the eyes of one. A young man, eyes red and weepy, looking just as tired as Bucky felt. Walking back into the bullpen the normal workload seeming even heavier, everyone seemed to have three things to do and three more on the backburner. Rumlow in the back room was setting up a pin board with victim one and two. And a woman with short brown hair, arms crossed, sitting back on the conference table, watching him do it.</p><p>As he approached further, he could see the FBI badge on her hip. This must be her. The agent they’ve sent because they had to.</p><p>“Barnes.” Rumlow nods at him as he enters the room. “This is Agent Hill.” The woman stood from the desk, holding her hand out for him to shake.</p><p>“From the FBI.” She looks serious, like she has to be to survive in a world mostly ruled by men. Her handshake is firm. Bucky feels sorry that she had to put up with Rumlow without him as a buffer.</p><p>“Nice to meet you.” She gestures to the board Rumlow was still working on.</p><p>“Would you say this is accurate?” The two bodies photographed right below the pictures of both girls. Always that high school graduation picture, Cheryl’s one with her kids probably done at the mall. Bucky’s hand clenched around his coffee cup a little harder. Sighing, thinking briefly about how your Mom was once up on one of these boards.</p><p>It gave him a strange feeling he couldn’t quite cope with, so he tears his eyes away.</p><p>“Yeah,” A sip from his coffee cup, “That’s about right.” A long sigh. She nods,</p><p>“Have you talked to any of the girls on the street?” It pained Bucky to tell her yes,</p><p>“But they didn’t really want to talk to us.” Rumlow said as he pinned another picture up.</p><p>“They didn’t want to talk to you.” Bucky accused. Rumlow shot him a glare. Kind of like, how are you going to embarrass me like this? Something he’d for sure bring up later.</p><p>“Do we have any leads?” Agent Hill asked, exasperated, like she just walked into a giant mess. Bucky reasoned, she did. But then he remembered you, the diner last night.</p><p>“Yes.” He ignores the look from Rumlow. “An old police cruiser, one of the girls said she saw Cheryl get into a stripped old model police cruiser.” Agent Hill nods,</p><p>“Okay, so we will see which ones have gone to auction.” A shrug, “Go from there.”</p><p>Steve’s door was closed when Bucky approached it, a knock to enter. The ‘come in’ from behind the thick oak. Steve smiles at him sheepishly as Bucky opens the door, brushing the bagel crumbs off his shirt. Bucky notices how tired Steve looks, but not a hair out of place, the bags under his eyes show the fatigue.</p><p>“You doin’ alright?” Bucky asks, shutting the door and sinking down in the chair across from his friend. Steve sighs, running his hand through his hair. A bad habit he tried to keep himself from. Bucky watched him as he silently scolded himself for it and shook more sleep from his eyes.</p><p>“Yeah,” Gruff and unlike him usually, “Had a bit of an argument with Peg last night. She made me sleep on the couch.” Bucky barked a laugh, met with Steve’s glare.</p><p>“What did you do?” Steve rolled his eyes, “C’mon pal, I know you did something, Peg is a saint.” Steve gives him a tight smile,</p><p>“What do you want Buck?” A sigh, sinking further into the chair, Bucky looks around Steve’s office.</p><p>“Remember back in 2015 when you bought your Dad’s old cruiser?” Steve’s brow pulled together in confusion,</p><p>“Yeah, why?”</p><p>“Apparently our guy was driving one of them when he picked up Cheryl Hansen a few nights ago.” Steve sighed heavily, leaning back in his seat, thinking for a moment.</p><p>“An old police cruiser…” Shaking his head, “You’ll have to look through the old auction files,” A pause, “There were quite a few cars sent to auction.” On his fingers he counted, “I was gifted my Dad’s… I know Pierce took his old beat car, but so did a bunch of other higher ups.” A shrug, “A couple of the guys out there bought one for novelty, but I think about twenty went out for public auction.”</p><p>Bucky nods, “Okay, okay.” A tug on his lip, “We’re gonna pull the old files and see if we can start going around…” He looked across at his friend, “Is there any way you could get Rumlow assigned somewhere else?”</p><p>Steve laughed at that, “Already?” Sitting back in his chair, “I thought you would have at least stuck it out for the rest of the week.” Bucky rolled his eyes,</p><p>“The guy is a menace; I would get a girl to talk and here he would come and make some bullshit comment or stand too close.” A huff, “He’s holding me back.”</p><p>“He’s got more experience than you, Buck.” A half smirk, “And Pierce would have my head if I took him off, so I’m gonna have to say no. Anything else you want to ask?”</p><p>Bucky thought about you, a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach, “That reporter that was in here a couple days ago… no listen.” He holds his hand out as Steve sets his jaw. “I think she could really help.”</p><p>“Buck—”</p><p>“She runs this relief fund for families of the victims, and they meet up once a month,” Resting his hand on the desk, “One is happening today, just give me the okay to go out there and question some of the families.” Steve seemed to debate it for a moment before lacing his hands over his belly.</p><p>“Pierce said no reporters.” Firm.</p><p>“But it’s not to give her information, it’s to interview people familiar to the old case.” Steve debated it a moment more before shaking his head with a sigh.</p><p>“Fine, but no statements better show up in the paper tomorrow.” Bucky grinned at his friend, Steve rolled his eyes, “I’m serious Buck.”</p><p>“I know you are.” That grin of satisfaction not leaving his face. Steve laughed,</p><p>“Now get out of my office.”</p><p>…</p><p>Wanda seemed in brighter spirits today as she lay out the food. Pietro carrying in boxes with the foil dishes while you set up the chairs and tables. Softly music played in the background. Just something to fill the silence as Wanda unwrapped dishes of cookies and lit sterno under dishes served hot. She jokes with you and Pietro about some show she was watching last night. Something you couldn’t ever be bothered to watch yourself, but you humored her as she talked about the drama that had unfolded between two couples.</p><p>People start arriving staggered. The early ones help you finish setting up, the ones coming in later met with raucous greeting from old friends. A lot of them with kids of their own. A table set up with crafts to keep them busy while their parents mingle and chat. Spouses here to support. Friends and people struck by the cause.</p><p>While it was your favorite day of the month, it was also the most tiring. A non-stop stream of greetings and hugs, marveling at how some kids have grown, wondering aloud about activities for them for next month and seeing what they would like.</p><p>But the questions you received the most, the reason for your high anxiety about this whole day, was…</p><p>“Is he back?”</p><p>“It’s him, isn’t it?”</p><p>“What should we do?”</p><p>And you just didn’t have an answer. Not yet. Not today. Not so soon. Sophie didn’t show, but then again you didn’t expect her to. It was far too soon. And Christine’s family didn’t have much to do with her anyway.</p><p>You looked for him, Bucky. You found your head turning towards the door every time you heard someone come in or out. The disappointment clear in it being someone coming back in from a smoke break was alarming and you weren’t quite sure why you were feeling this way. A paper cup with your name written on in sharpie with lemonade in it held in hand you continued to make your rounds, unaware that he’d even arrived until he sought you out.</p><p>“Hey.” Breathy and it sent a pleasant chill down your spine. Rumlow standing in the doorway with a woman you didn’t recognize. Your eyes meet Bucky’s and you couldn’t help the smile.</p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>He was in plainclothes. Not the normal button down and tie he was usually wearing. But something soft. Something you could imagine sticking your nose into. Something you had to shake from your head almost immediately. Hands in his pockets he looks around.</p><p>“Good turn out.” You agree, trying to get over him in jeans and a t-shirt.</p><p>“We stay pretty consistent.” You smile, “Today has been a good day considering… So, what did the autopsy reports say?” You see Rumlow and the other woman break off into the crowd, no doubt to try to get any information. He sighs,</p><p>“Sexual assault…” Shaking his head, “But no DNA left… and the fingers are being taken while they’re still alive, both of them anyway.” A heavy sigh. “They found no ketamine in Christine’s system, but I’m thinking that maybe because it was his first kill he wasn’t really thinking about it.”</p><p>“Yeah,” You take a sip of lemonade, “That’s probably it… what about the cars?”</p><p>“I’ve got the go ahead, we are having auction records pulled… we just need someone to talk now.” He looks around the room, “Someone has to know something.”</p><p>“You think maybe there’s another witness?” He shrugs,</p><p>“I mean it’s possible,” He licks his lips, “Do you think that girl you talked to would talk again?”</p><p>“I don’t know.” You answer honestly, “She wasn’t really comfortable even talking to me.” You watch him nod, “Do you want something to drink?” You lift your cup, he gives you a soft smile,</p><p>“Whaddya got?”</p><p>Wanda was over by the snack table, organizing and reorganizing. Getting rid of trays as they empty. You wished she would interact more, socialize and talk to people without the buffer of the table in between but this is what made her comfortable.</p><p>“Wanda.” She smiles softly and looks at the man beside you. “This is Detective Barnes.” The cracks there, as her smile slowly shifts into a frown and then back.</p><p>“Nice to meet you,” Holding out his hand for her to shake, which she doesn’t take. He nervously wipes it on his jeans.</p><p>“You’re going to stop him.” She says, voice shaking, “Right?” You set your cup down and step onto the other side of the table, gently placing your arms on hers.</p><p>“Wanda,” Her eyes focused on him, “Come on honey,” You look at Bucky whose face has pulled into sorrow. “I think you need a break.” Your eyes scan the crowd for Pietro, finding him flirting unabashedly with the woman who had entered with Bucky and Rumlow, sighing heavily, you gently begin to lead Wanda from the room.</p><p>“I’ll do everything I can.” Bucky’s voice firm with resolve from behind you. You cast him a glance over your shoulder as you bring Wanda into the back room, his eyes meeting yours and giving you a firm nod.</p><p>Maybe things would be different this time after all.</p><p>…</p><p>Bucky felt a guilt gnaw in his chest and he really looked around this room for the first time.</p><p>When he’d first entered, he’d been so focused on finding you. A happiness blooming in his chest as he watched you laugh with someone. A smile on your face as a little girl seemed to be telling you some animated story, amusing enough to make you full belly laugh twice before he began to make his way over to you. The luck of it being the girl parting with her father in tow as he reached you.</p><p>The flush in your cheeks just about did him in.</p><p>These people were happy, sure. As he looked around the room, he could see the smiles and cheeriness of those who have found solace in one another over such a deep rooted trauma. But there was a sadness there too.</p><p>For a moment he was proud of what you’d accomplished with this. Bringing all of these people together over what must have been your own guilt about your Mother’s death. What good had come out of it.</p><p>He couldn’t imagine, thinking about it, if his own Ma had been murdered. Let alone the brutality in those women’s last moments. The horror of it. It dried his mouth. It made his stomach churn and gave him the sudden urge to step outside and dial.</p><p>She picked up on the second ring, like she always did.</p><p>“Hi Ma.” Soft into the phone, like he was a little boy and just needed her at this moment.</p><p>“Jaime, what’s wrong?” Because she would immediately know. She would always immediately have known. He sighs,</p><p>“This new case I’m workin’ on…” He starts, “Just a little rough, I just needed to hear your voice.” She hums from the end of the line.</p><p>“Are you okay?” He rests his back against the brick of the building, tugging on his bottom lip with his teeth, ripping at the dead skin there.</p><p>“I think I will be,” Scrubbing his face with his hand, “It’s just… someone’s lost their mother.” A swallow, “Just wanted to call and tell you that I love you.”</p><p>“I love you too sweetheart.” It warmed his chest but made him ache at the same time. You were how old when you lost your Mom?</p><p>You never got to do this. You could never call her when you were feeling upset. You could never just pop in to go see her and she would never make your favorite food just to cheer you up.</p><p>Something sat raw and acidic in Bucky’s gut, something he knew he wouldn’t be able to shake until this guy was behind bars.</p><p>“Come see me when you can, okay?” His Ma’s voice, sweet and comforting. He closes his eyes, resting his head against the brick and fights back the tears of grief he feels for you.</p><p>“Okay.”</p>
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